


Red Pants

by Fl0rence_changed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28650930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fl0rence_changed/pseuds/Fl0rence_changed
Summary: Sherlock needed more data. An experiment was due.
Relationships: Sherlock - Relationship
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was frustrated, and that was an understatement. His usual methods had failed, and he had to admit defeat. He didn’t have enough information, not enough data. Lying down on the couch, his hands pressed together in front of his lips, his mind palace had yet to show him what he needed to know. He let out a tight noise of irritation, eyes opened as he scowled at the ceiling. It was his favorite time of night. The crawl of the busy London streets had slowed, inhabitants home and sleeping. The streetlights glowed and the occasional foot traffic could be seen on some of the busier roads, but not on Baker Street. Sherlock loved the quiet. Which was almost at odds with who he was as a person, all loud deductions, never giving any space or backing down. The quiet gave him time to think. He made his best work at night, well after the stragglers had turned in from their after hours activities. 

Giving himself a brief shake, he sat up and felt the nagging tightness of his neck and shoulders that accompanied a long stay in his mind palace. Lying in repose on the couch was his best place to meditate and think- central but not obstructive, but he did usually suffer some stiff muscles. He slowly made his way over to the kitchen, not caring for the hour. He needed a warm drink to ease his discomfort and to help him think. Flicking on the kettle, he found his mug from earlier and rinsed it out. Plopping a tea bag in, he leaned against the countertop to wait. Looking around in the dim kitchen, his mind turned over the current case again. Well, current case probably wasn’t the most accurate. It was Sherlock’s most recent puzzle. Something that he had yet to get a handle on. Sherlock frowned to himself. He still wasn’t sure why it was niggling at him so. Well, no- that wasn’t accurate either. Glancing to the stairway leading to John’s room, he knew very well why this was bothering him. He knew from the moment they met at Barts that something had changed. Sherlock had never been as intuitive as others when it comes to personal relationships. He could turn someone’s life inside out, dissecting every nuance with sharp probing and make use of his deductions. When it came to looking closer to home, looking at himself and his relationships with others, he faltered. To be fair, he had not had many relationships. Not many people in his life he considered long enough to consider forming any meaningful connection with. Not that his acquaintances tried to stick around him for any length of time. He knew people found him prickly at best, and a narcissistic prick most of the time. It never bothered him. He couldn’t stop who he was, he had never wanted to. 

His eyes wandered up to the doorway, the darkened frame looming at the top of the stairwell had the door shut tight. Sherlock could clearly see in his minds eye the scene from within. He had not yet deciphered everything about his flatmate in the 6 short months they had been living together. He knew important things about John. He knew that John was loyal, brave, smart and lethal. He had known all of that after that first case together. He knew John valued privacy, but he was not a distant man. John had lectured Sherlock many times about personal space, about not barging into his room because it was his space and not Sherlock’s. It had taken some time to differentiate between John’s need for privacy versus his need for personal space. He knew from sharing a flat with him that John had no qualms with Sherlock being close. Their flat was enough space for the two of them, but it was an older building with narrow hallways and a smaller bathroom. If Sherlock needed to squeeze by or grab something when John was occupied (unless John was using the loo- Sherlock found that out the hard way), that was just fine. It was the smaller, not as easily to define moments that left Sherlock floundering. There was the night that he was performing an experiment that took a turn. In retrospect, he should have made sure to mix those chemicals under a fume vent, but he hadn’t had the time. The gasses were poisonous and there was no time. He burst into John’s room, slightly frantic to wake him up. John had sat up, yelling about the time. In the moment, Sherlock had not stopped to really look at John, in light of the slight emergency. But his mind had clearly saved everything for later viewing. His mind palace was a wonderful thing. It had taken the better part of a decade in his adolescence to get all the pieces down, but now, it was a token piece to who he was and he took comfort in its familiarity. Closing his eyes, he could perfectly conjure up John, face flushed in anger, his quick and jerking movements to grab his dressing gown and run down the stairs. His exposed thighs working under the labor to move his compact frame swiftly. In one brief instance, his tight and firm buttocks clenched as he flung the windows open to ventilate the flat and the rush of air stirred his dressing gown. 

Sherlock startled at the quiet click of the kettle. Opening his eyes again, he blinked and carefully poured the hot water over his tea bag. Using a teaspoon, he bullied the flavor out of the bag and then flung it into the trash. He mixed in just a bit of sugar and took his mug to his chair to sit in repose. Sitting carefully in the cool leather armchair, both hands grasped firmly around the mug for warmth, his mind continued to turn over his latest quandary even as the sky slowly lightened. Sherlock knew many things about his flatmate, but even so he still felt like there was always more to learn. John was interesting in ways that the rest of the populous was not. He felt like he could spend hours and hours pouring over new information, studying and questioning John and never get to the end. Sherlock was endlessly fascinated. At the beginning, it had concerned him. He was used to being solitary, alone by choice and consequences of his behavior. No one came close, and he allowed no one in. When he met John, felt that spark and rush of oh god yes, it left him feeling wrong footed. Months of familiarity helped. He no longer felt that same fear, that same what if, when he looked at John. His stomach quivered, his palms slick and pulse elevated. He knew the name for it- attraction- even as his mind balked. What was he to do with that? He was neither as naive nor as inexperienced as John and Mycroft would think. He had bedded some lovers in the past, at Uni, when he was curious and he wanted. But those experiments were so few and far between, the names and faces long since deleted. Even with no experience in romantic relationships, he knew that his personality would be found wanting. So he had never tried. 

Taking a sip of his tea, closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth that spread through his chest, he hummed. He heard a creaking from the floorboards above, a sign of the inhabitant waking. Again, his mind conjured up another important fact he learned that night some odd weeks ago. John slept in his pants. Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, his long fingers clenching around his mug as he took in a shaky breath. Glancing at the clock, he knew he only had a few more moments before John came downstairs in need of the loo and hot tea. His mind tripped into overtime, skipping ahead showing him connections and different paths to take. Sherlock knew of his fascination, his desires and urges. They overwhelmed him, made his chest tight and his face flush, but in an exciting way. After months of dithering, he felt like his resolve was cementing. Sherlock remembered that first dinner at Angelo’s, the “I’m not his date!” Of John’s blatant flirtation and his uncomfortable denial that he wasn’t propositioning. Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder how different things could have gone if he had just been honest that first night. Sherlock knows that their undeniable chemistry has always been there right from the start, but he isn’t sure if it could have lasted. Yes, his personality was lacking in what society determined as necessities such as politeness, but he also knew that back then, he didn’t have the time or the patience to learn how to cohabitate and start a new romantic relationship. But now, he mused, was it the time? He needed more data. Hence, his current quandary. 

The door latch clicked and it swung open to reveal the occupant. Sherlock felt his breath catch. John looked wonderfully sleep disheveled, his short ashy blonde hair sticking up at the back. Even from where he was sitting, Sherlock could see the shadow of stubble on his jaw as his mouth opened in a large yawn. “Morning.” Sherlock grunted a reply, too rapt in his assessment. John made his way down to the main of the flat, and as Sherlock knew he would do, made his way towards to loo. Sherlock’s eyes caught on John’s soft cotton sleep pants, hung low and ratty from old age and washing. John paused to stretch and Sherlock caught sight of the small of his back, a line of smooth skin just marred by the elastic of his pants that was clearly visible above those loose pants. Sherlock could see the dip of his spine, the color of his pants (red), shadows caused by the swelling topography of flesh that made up John. His fingers flexed around his cup, his mouth dry and his teeth clenched in anticipation. It felt like his fingers itched with the desire to map out the sight before him. Before he could marshal together any further thoughts, John interrupted. “I was going to grab a shower, do you need anything in the bath before I do?” His eyes turned to find Sherlock sitting there with wide eyes. Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut and he pulled a collected face, bored, and he shook his head. “Ok, I’ll be done shortly.”

John pulled the door shut and Sherlock groaned, a quiet and frustrated noise of complaint. He couldn’t keep acting like this. Sherlock was stumped, and it aggravated his neves to the point of absolute irritation. John clearly slept in his pants. Only his pants. When did he develop that preference? In Uni, he had shared a room. Sleeping in only his pants would have been a risk. No, Sherlock couldn’t see John doing that. He valued his privacy too much for that. After Uni, it was the army. Sleeping overseas in a camp with a bunch of other soldiers, needing to be ready at a moments notice, it couldn’t have been then. Not only would it have been improbable that he wouldn’t have been caught, it was impractical. And John was anything but. So when? When had he decided to start sleeping in those tight, short, and ill concealing pants? And was it the same pair? That night of his ill performed experiment, Sherlock clearly remembered the red hued underwear, same as what he saw this morning. No, not enough data to form a concrete outline. It seemed at odds with what Sherlock knew of John. He was private, enjoyed comforts of home. His usual clothing fare consisted of layers, rarely showing much skin at all. His formative younger years were not conducive to his current sleep habits. He needed more data. 

He blinked as a pathway started forming, hazy at first but slowly opening up further as his mind spun and different facts made themselves clearer. Sherlock slowly raised his mug to drain the rest of his tea and his lips lifted into a small smirk. Yes, he saw the way forward.


	2. Chapter 2

John stumbled up the curb to the door. The London sky was overcast, dreary and misting rain soaked his hair flat to his scalp from the short walk home from the surgery. Shivering, his cold fingers unlocked the front door and he slipped inside. Sighing, he relaxed back onto the doorway, briefly closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of home. His eyes burned and his slacks were damp from the weather. Slowly he leaned up and pealed off his coat, scarf and gloves and hung them on the rack. He turned and made his way up the narrow stairway, the seventeen steps to home, creaking and groaning with age below his weight. He was so tired and cold that when he made his way into the main room of the flat, he didn’t even register his flatmate lying supine on the couch in repose. He trotted his way up to his room. Due to the poor insulation, it was cold and John shivered as he turned on the radiator. Pealing off his jumper, he laid it over the heater. The colder air hit his bare arms and left goose flesh in its wake. His body was racked with shivers, his nipples peaking as his body put in a desperate effort to raise his body temperature. His vest, slacks, socks and pants followed suit. Standing starkers, he ambled over to his wardrobe in search of clothes that were clean and dry. 

Opening the doors, John’s face creased in puzzlement. He was looking for one of his more comfortable lounging outfits that he favored, a worn pair of joggers and a soft, threadbare shirt that he had had for years. But his wardrobe was curiously bare. He shook his head in confusion and grabbed what he could. He pulled his clean pants up and over his buttocks, taking a moment to adjust himself to fit. Joggers, shirt and clean socks followed. Running a towel through his hair, he hung it over the radiator to dry and made his way towards the kitchen for a hot cup of tea. 

He paused on the steps, taking in the view. Sherlock laid on the sofa, eyes closed and hands pressed together, held in front of his lips. He looked as if in prayer, even if John knew that was a fallacy. He knew Sherlock worshiped no deity, held no one into such power except for what he himself could quantify. His fingers, so long and nimble, touching his full lips and drawing John’s attention as surely as a bright neon sign would. Not that John needed any help paying attention to his flatmate. He was acutely aware of how much attention he paid to the man. Talk, dark, classically handsome with a deep voice and sharp eyes; Sherlock demanded attention wherever he went. John was rapt. The muted sunlight from the fading day was still drifting through the opened curtains, coloring Sherlock with a warmth and turning his skin to milk. He was wearing a loose cotton shirt and sleep pants, wrapped in his blue silken dressing gown. The shirt’s structure was worn, exposing the long length of Sherlock’s neck. His breathing was slow and natural, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, but not a sedentary sleeping fashion. Even now, watching, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and he sighed. John continued his trek to the kitchen as Sherlock stirred into a seating position. He didn’t miss the wince of discomfort. Making two cups of tea rather than one was no chore, so he rinsed out their mugs and placed tea bags in each. “Had a busy day?” 

“Negligible. The case was barely a one patch problem. I had it solved by 10 am. Gary needs to either hire better help or find a new career if this is the best he could do.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, sauntering into the kitchen to fix his tea. John didn’t even bother to correct Sherlock to Greg. Leaning in close, Sherlock reached over John to get the sugar and completely ignoring what society dictates at polite. John felt his hand shake holding his spoon due to the close proximity. He inhaled to steady himself, belatedly realizing Sherlock’s neck was exposed to his nose as he placed the sugar back. Sherlock stiffened slightly and John flushed, feeling the warmth having Sherlock so close. He righted himself, but not without a slow, sideways glance that was full of warmth. John’s heart beat a fast, happy rhythm in answer, a smile toying at the edges of his mouth. John blinked and finished fixing his tea. Slowly pulling his thoughts together, he leaned against the countertop, shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock. He was a good 12 centimeters taller than him, looming with his thin frame. The silence was companionable and comfortable. John relished these moments, the closeness and intimacy that he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to have with Sherlock. Sherlock, the man that was a self proclaimed sociopath, with his shy smiles and heated gaze. 

At the beginning, Sherlock seemed untouchable. His cold demeanor was unflappable, it was almost uncomfortable to be around. Still, John felt drawn to him like it was inevitable. John became a doctor and then became a solider, feeling the pull to something greater than himself, feeling that desire to help and do more. The pull to Sherlock had felt similar to that at first. But slowly, it had changed. John felt that connection at Barts, unable to name that feeling, or maybe unwilling at that time. Now, between time and familiarity, John could recognize that heady pull of want for what it was. Now, standing next to Sherlock with his shoulder brushing his arm with each breath and sip of tea, he could feel the inexplicable urge to get closer. He wanted to heard Sherlock closer to the counter, step into the V of his legs and crowd into his personal space. He wanted to stretch up and run his nose down the side of his neck and inhale his scent and hold it deep in his lungs until he was forced to take another breath. He wanted to see what Sherlock’s mouth tasted like after tea, just how far he would have to stretch up to slot their mouths together. He was so close to Sherlock that he could feel his chest rumble with a question and John closed his eyes to focus. Opening them again, he looked up into Sherlock’s pale gaze. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Sherlock’s eyes were gray in the dim light and they seemed to be lit from within. Smirking, he repeated, “How was the surgery today? I see the weather wasn’t kind on your way home.” John felt his face warm up under the scrutiny. Inside, he felt some confusion. He was closest to Sherlock, more so than anyone else in his life, but he had no illusions about the man’s personality, nor his potential shortcomings. Living with him had been eye opening. Truly, to say that Sherlock had been flippant and dismissive of his “difficult to live with traits” at that first meeting was a gross understatement. Whatever Sherlock had disclosed at that time was neither accurate nor sufficient enough of a warning. John did not remember word for word what was said. He remembered with perfect clarity what Sherlock was wearing, his perfect, lopsided smile, and that first amazing deduction. He knew Sherlock better than he knew anyone else. Sherlock was manipulative, cunning, ruthless in the pursuit of knowledge. He was also shy and unsure with true emotions, at least with his own. Other people were treated as pariahs when they showed any emotions. Well, most people, John acknowledged. Sherlock had been known to show an enormous amount of tolerance and reason when it came to John’s feelings. When John woke up shaking from another nightmare, or came home from a tough day at work, or when he was struggling with a particularly difficult case, Sherlock was there. Maybe not in the same way that others in John’s life had shown him support and comfort in times of need. Sherlock could be found playing Bach on his violin after a nightmare. Sherlock would walk John through a case as a distraction from a difficult workday. And Sherlock would have a steady hand, a steady presence in the face of brutality that dogged the steps of the Work. With that being said, John knew that small talk was not one of Sherlock’s strengths. In fact, it grated at his patience when he had to sham and get in someone’s good books. 

John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes with some suspicion and shook his head. “The weather was typical for London. Cold, rainy and shit as always.” Thinking of upstairs and his dwindling wardrobe. “Say, when I was getting dressed, I noticed that a lot of my clothing was missing. You don’t have any idea what happened there, do you?” Sherlock was nothing if not a professional. He had all but trained himself out of showing any noticeable tells of lying, but John knew him. A slight tightening of the eyes and his lips twitched and John knew. Sherlock’s voice was reassuring, raising an eyebrow mockingly, “Missing clothing? Would you like to file a report and get me to help you officially?”

“Oh ha bloody ha. Sherlock, I am not an idiot- contrary to what you often try and tell me.” Sherlock’s smirk became more pronounced, his eyes widened innocently and unconvincingly. John shook his head, admitting defeat for now. He knew he had some dirty clothes in the wash downstairs. He would just have to make sure to get them cleaned so he would have more clothing to wear until Sherlock gave him his stuff back. Slightly baffled, he he went through the motions of preparing a light dinner while Sherlock moved to his armchair and his laptop. Comforted by the ablutions of the evening, time passed and John forgot all about his clothing. God, he hadn’t thought all those months ago that life could be like this. Sherlock shared more than his flat, but his life with John. Sitting next to him on the sofa, watching crap telly while Sherlock critiques everything from costume choices to delivery, John was comfortable and happy. Lulled by Sherlock’s presence and deep voice, John yawned. Wrapped in a warm blanket and leaning on Sherlock for support, he didn’t even realize when he had started to drift off. 

John was startled awake to Sherlock shaking his shoulder. “John! It’s Lestrade. We are needed.” Sherlock’s voice was low, thrilling. He was moving in quick but graceful motions through the flat, grabbing his scarf and shoes. Looking at John expectantly. “Are you coming?” He cocked his head slightly to the side. He reached his hand out to give John a hand up and John didn’t think twice. What followed was a whirlwind of an evening. The case involved a murder with a locked room, money laundering and finished with a foot chase across the rooftops. John’s heart was pounding, his nerves alight even as he shivered from the cold damp for the second time tonight. They hailed a cab home to Baker Street, intent on getting warm clothes. The atmosphere in the cab was electric and intense. They were huddled in the back seat, almost touching but it felt all the closer with the lack of contact. John was acutely aware of Sherlock’s frame, his coat thick and covering all angles and flesh from sight. Shivering as the cab pulled up to the curb, he jumped out and let Sherlock pay fare as he unlocked the door. He held the door open long enough for Sherlock to enter the flat and shut it firmly behind them. 

The entryway was dark and quiet, 221A empty. Mrs. Hudson was spending the weekend at her sisters and wouldn’t be back. John’s hands shook as he turned his back on Sherlock to focus on getting his outerwear off. He heard Sherlock snort and felt a hand on his shoulder. “Here, let me help,” as he turned John back around to face him. “We left before your outerwear could be adequately dry from previously so your core temperature is much lower than it should be.” Deft fingers divested his scarf, cold hands lingering on his neck and shoulders. John shivered, but it had nothing to do with the cold. His stomach pooled with warmth and his heart sped up. John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes and met a small, warm smile. “Go get a shower and get warm,” his eyes seemed to spark with mischief. John cleared his throat and hummed an agreement. 

Making his way to the bathroom, John felt Sherlock’s eyes on his back. Closing the door with a click, he looked into the mirror. Meeting his gaze, he took in his wide eyes and flushed cheeks. Christ, he looked so much younger, his eyes bright with excitement. Smiling and shaking his head, he turned on the taps and the room filled with hot steam. Stripping, he stepped into the hot water and ducked his head underneath the spray. Closing his eyes, he thought of Sherlock. God, what a night. He didn’t think he was going to be able to hold status quo much longer. He was forgetting why he thought he should. Yes, changing a relationship could be scary. What they had defied logic. John couldn’t imagine his life any other way. He knew that in five, twenty years, the rest of his life- this is exactly where he would be. Sherlock’s heat filled gaze filled his mind and he felt his groin tighten. Letting out a small sigh, he grasped his member and began to stroke. A slight twisting motion, flicking his thumb over his slit with each pass, John recalled Sherlock’s hands on his neck, the warmth of his shoulder pressing into his, and the smell of his skin. It was over quickly with a groan, the remnants washing down the drain. He continued to wash quickly, ready to get back with Sherlock. 

Twisting off the taps, he grabbed the towel. Belatedly, he realized that he didn’t even stop to grab any clean clothes. He uttered a curse when he remembered that he probably didn’t have much to chose from. What he was wearing was damp, and he doubted what he had worn at work today was dry yet. Sighing, he secured his towel around his waist. Well, it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to nudity. Being in the military, and before in Uni, both had shared lavatories and there was no time for modesty. However, this was before he was shot. He wasn’t particularly vain, but he also didn’t put his skin on display for anyone. It was part of the reason he had issues with intimacy since being discharged from the army. Oh, he had dates, but never more. It was a large scar, begging for questions and sympathy. John wanted neither. Taking a settling breath, he stepped out of the bathroom and went to head to his room for clothing. He almost bumped into Sherlock in his haste. He reached out and grabbed his shoulder to steady himself while Sherlock wobbled, “Sorry, shit, I wasn’t looking-“

He lost his train of thought as he looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock looked dazed, his ears pink and his lips parted. John could feel a large hand on the top of his towel around his waste, Sherlock’s thumb just brushing his bare skin. John froze as Sherlock let his gaze travel down. It felt like he was being branded with his eyes. He could feel Sherlock as if he were running his hands all over his torso. John’s skin flushed, his nipples pebbled and his breathing coming out in short pants. He wet his lips as Sherlock met his gaze again, hot and wanting. He could feel the gravel in his voice, “You should go get dressed before you catch cold.” John felt his eyes fall shut and he swayed a moment, before steeling himself and heading to his room. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as he ascended the staircase. He shut the door and sat on the bed to catch his breath. Shaking his head, he went to the radiator where his clothes were still damp. He shrugged and went to the wardrobe. Before he got to it, he noticed that the doors were ajar. Baffled, he opened them all the way and stared. All of his clothing was gone. Every piece. He pulled the drawer out and noticed one scrap of fabric remained, in the far corner. Suspiciously, John pulled out his favorite red pants. What the hell? What happened to the rest of his clothing, and why was this the only thing that was left? He felt his frustration seeping through. They were his clothes, dammit! And he was cold! He pulled the pants on roughly and looked around. The bastard even took his dressing gown! Ok, John thought. He went too far. 

He grabbed his quilt from his bed and wrapped it around himself and flung the door open. He marched downstairs with a purpose. As he made it to the main floor, Sherlock came out of the kitchen holding two mugs of tea and wearing a look like the cat that got the cream. Really, no one should look that satisfied. “Sherlock, where the fuck are my clothes!” He couldn’t even gesture correctly, as he was holding onto his blanket too tightly. Belatedly, he realized that Sherlock had stepped into his personal space. Sherlock had had the time to make tea and he had changed his clothes back into those loose pants and blue dressing gown. His eyes flickered down and John realized that Sherlock didn’t have his shirt on. He could see his nipples, hard and peaked under the gown. His mouth went dry. Sherlock pushed a mug of tea into his hand, his fingers lingered as he retreated to his chair. He sat down like it was a throne, his mug propped up on one arm, one leg crossed over and leaning all the way back. Sherlock maintained eye contact, eyes smoldering and John felt his cock twitch. “I’m serious, Sherlock. Where are my clothes. You can’t expect me to wear nothing but pants, can you?”

Even as he finished, his face felt like it was crimson. Sherlock’s answering smile was feral, “Can’t I?” Before John could respond, Sherlock continued. “It’s an experiment, you see. I had a hypothesis, but not enough data. The subject was not very forthcoming and I needed to set the stage, so to speak.” John felt his neck growing warm, a sure sign of his temper, but even so, the erection in his pants was becoming more and more persistent. “I had wondered, for a few weeks now, about your nighttime behavior. Why, I wondered, had a man that had no way of nurturing a habit of sleeping in nought but pants start exhibiting this behavior?” John felt his breath hitch and speed up. “Living in dorms in Uni, and then in the military, there would be no chance of being able to sleep in your pants. Pajamas would be much more practical and socially acceptable. You are nothing, if not practical. But that night, a few weeks ago when I awoke you from sleep as the apartment was being compromised, you were sleeping in nothing but pants. The same pants that you have on now.” Here, Sherlock’s gaze traveled down John’s frame and lingered to his groin. John’s groin gave a throb and he felt his pants grow tighter. He almost groaned. Sherlock met his eyes again, a very self satisfied look on his face. “I think you are more comfortable in your pants, at least you are when you are here, at home with me. I think that is the reason for the wardrobe change. That you wanted to be seen, by me, like this.”

Here, Sherlock put his untouched mug on the table. John’s hands were shaking as he watched Sherlock prowl back into his space. He pried the mug out of his clenched hands and placed in on the table. Turning back to John, he put his large hands on his shoulders. John was trembling, his gaze on Sherlock’s face. John’s hands let go of his blanket the same time that Sherlock started slowly peeling it off of him. He felt the quilt fall in a whisper of fabric as it brushed down his skin and fell in a pool around his feet. John’s hands reached out and gently grasped Sherlock on his waste. Both hands touching his smooth, slim hips. John felt like his hands fit perfectly, thumbs stroking a soothing rhythm. Sherlock was close, so close that John could feel his answering arousal. Tilting his head up, John closed the small distance, closing his eyes and finally taking a taste of those full lips. John could feel Sherlock trembling, his breath shaky and he wrapped his arms around his waste, holding him close. Sherlock let out a hum and opened his mouth to deepen the kiss. John felt Sherlock’s fingers, so skilled at playing violin and tuning a microscope, tangle into his hair and hold him firmly in place, as if worried John was going to leave. Sherlock tasted of tea, and John stroked his tongue, gliding it for taste after taste until they broke apart for air. Sherlock’s face was flushed, swollen lips and his eyes were dark and wanting. 

“Come. Bedroom, please?” John tugged on Sherlock’s hand, trying to pull him down the hallway to a bed, any bed. Sherlock seemed to shake out of his stupor and flushed darker. John’s grin was wicked. “I am not yet done with you. Come on then.” John led Sherlock down the hallway to his bedroom and pushed the door open. The double bed was a welcome sight. John turned and ran his hands up and under Sherlock’s dressing gown, pushing it off his shoulders and revealing more skin. Sherlock licked his lips and blinked, as if a thought occurred to him. “Wait! Wait John.” 

John laughter and shook his head. “You’ll never be anything other than yourself.” Sherlock gave him an irritated look and John just smiled at him, hugging him close. “What is it Sherlock?”

“How long have you been wearing those pants to sleep in?” 

John’s smile was predatory. 

“Almost 6 months.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And end! Let me know what you think :)  
> Until next time-
> 
> -FlOrence


End file.
